


Permission to Feel

by TWDObsessive



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Guilt, Kissing, M/M, Massage, POV First Person, POV Rick Grimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 04:17:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7559767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TWDObsessive/pseuds/TWDObsessive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick is depressed, but isn't everyone?  Does he even have a right to feel this way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Permission to Feel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Kind of a thing like people do where I write something about myself in a fic. My complicated relationship with depression is shown here in Rick. 
> 
> Unbeta'd and written in a sad mood. Hope there aren't too many errors.  
> Update- thanks again to Bella Monoxide for sending beta notes!!! I've cleaned some things up! ;-)

Most days I want to give up. No one knows that. That's my sin, my secret. I wanted to give up on the farm when I found out about the baby. Wanted to give up at the prison when the Governor was hellbent on war. Wanted to give up on my knees in Terminus. 

How easy would it be to die? It's simple really. You just stop breathing. You close your eyes and it's all gone. 

I don't have the luxury of death though, because it's not just me here in this world. I have a son and a daughter. I have people who rely on me. So I'm forced every day to wake up and breathe another breath. And I'm forced to convince the others to do the same. To wake and to walk and to breathe and to fight. 

There's been talk of this Negan. Maggie is sick and needs to see a doctor. We’ll leave at first light tomorrow. Things had been quiet in Alexandria, but they won't be for long. They never are. 

I want to give up now even though things are relatively calm in the community and we hadn’t yet come face to face with this new enemy. But we will. There is no doubt that we will. And I don't want to be the leader, the one in charge. The one with all the answers. I don't have answers. No one has answers. 

I sit on the porch in the fading sun thinking about it again. How nice it would be to close my eyes. To never open them back up. But Daryl comes up the steps with Judith in his arms, a double reminder of why I need to keep on breathing.

He sits across from me. He puts her on the ground and she manages to get up on two feet and waddle-walks to me. “Teaching her to ride the Harley next,” Daryl grins. She reaches me and tugs at my beard. I hadn’t even realized that it had grown back out so much. 

“Hey, baby girl,” I say in a voice that doesn’t even sound like me. It sounds like resignation and sorrow. It’s not a voice I let many hear. But I can’t do this alone. I can’t. So I let Daryl hear it sometimes when I need him.

“You having trouble?” he asks me. Of course he asks me. He knows me. He knows the sound of every emotion I have. He knows the meaning behind every expression. He knows my strengths but he also knows my fears. My fears are secret. No one else knows them but him.

Everyone thinks I’m the leader because I can lead. I can stand up front and I can speak. I can pretend to not be afraid and I can pretend to be confident. But Daryl is really the reason we are all still alive. He doesn’t have to pretend. Fear doesn’t stop him. He is strong and determined. I wish I could be more like him. I turn Judith around to face Daryl and he holds his hands out to her. She stumbles towards him saying “Da- Da-”. He thinks it’s for Daryl but sometimes I wonder. We both take equal care of her to be honest. Maybe we are both Dada?

When she reaches him, he lifts her into the air and blows raspberries on her belly. Her giggle is stark against the quiet of the town. It’s a sound not often heard anymore and though it’s a happy sound, it makes me sad. Daryl picks her up and takes her into the house and I already know he’s going to come back alone to talk to me. He’s been my rock for years. He always knows what’s on my mind, what’s weighing me down. He thinks I’m the sun and the moon. I know this. He’s got creative ways of getting the point of it across but I understand him. He would follow me anywhere and he would do whatever needed to be done. He doesn’t know that I think of him the same way. 

When he comes back, like I knew he would, he was alone. He’s got a fistful of deer jerky and a bottle of water. He sits next to me so our shoulders touch.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asks. 

A thing about Dixons-- they start with the fundamentals. Food. Water. Shelter. I shrug and he shoves a piece of jerky in my mouth in an effort to make me smile. It works a little, but it doesn’t last long. We eat quietly as the day dies in front of us, the sun sinking until it’s almost gone on the horizon. 

“How bad is it?” he asks. He knows. In this world, everyone suffers from depression. You’d be crazy not to be crazy.

“I’ll live,” I answer as I reach for the water that he opened and hands to me. Sometimes I feel guilty talking about this with Daryl. Daryl was beaten almost daily as a child. He had a terrible childhood with the scars on his back to prove it. He was poor and alone and he struggled every day to be alive right now. Me? I had a regular life. Family that depended on me. A wife that depended on me. Co-workers that depended on me. A son and now a daughter that depend on me. I had a house, a car… all the things that Dixons never had. So what right do I have to complain? What right did I ever have to feel this in my gut? This overwhelming sadness and this desire to snuff out the light that keeps me always awake.

I told him before. Back at the prison. Everyone lost loved ones. Everyone lost hope. I had no right to fall apart like I did but Daryl understands. He tells me always that depression is not exclusive to race or class or circumstance. My eyes hurt from holding back tears. I have no right to cry. Not now. We are safe on a porch behind the Alexandria walls. My son and daughter are well fed and I can hear them both laugh in the living room. There is nothing wrong right now. Why can’t I just be glad for that?

“You ain’t ok, Rick.” Daryl said with his mouth full of jerky and his eyes on the horizon.

“No one is ever ok,” I answer. 

“You have to let yourself feel when your body and mind are telling you to feel. The more you fight a good cry, the worse you’ll get later. You know that, Rick. I know you do.”

I nod and chew on more jerky. I think about sitting in the kitchen before the end of the world and watching the news after a bad day at work. I remember feeling it then. The nothingness. The ambivalence. It’s always been there. It’s a part of me even though I don’t have a right to it. 

“Ain’t nothing you can do to change the way you feel,” Daryl says after a guzzle of water. “You want to disappear? I get that. I want to disappear, too.”

I look at him. I always look at him for answers. “What do I do?”

Daryl shrugs. “‘The fuck do I know? Ain’t no shrink. But my guess is to at least stop feeling guilty about it. You feel depressed like the world kicked the shit out of you? Then feel it. Don’t wrap it up in guilt too. No one has the monopoly on depression, Rick. No one.”

“I’ll be able to get back up and do what needs to be done tomorrow. Dr. Carson will be ready for Maggie. We’ll get her there. The sun will rise and the sun will set and we’ll do what we need to do to get through each new day. Just survive somehow.”

“Wouldn’t hurt you to see Carson either, Rick. He could-”

“I’m not taking anti-depressants in the apocalypse. This is life. I have to just deal. And we need that medicine for the younger and weaker that can’t pick up their bootstraps like I can.”

Daryl stands and he reaches down for me. I take his hand and get up to follow because that is what I do. I follow Daryl even when he doesn’t realize he’s in the lead. Even when he’s ten steps behind me, I’m following him. He walks to the empty house next door and he kicks at a footstool, indicating that I should sit on it. And I do. Because Daryl wanted me to. Sometimes it eases the stress when I shift from subtly following Daryl’s lead to quite literally following it. He probably knows that. Because he knows everything.

He puts his strong hands on my shoulders and starts to massage me. 

“Relax,” he says. “You need some zen.”

I relax and let him work his strong hands and his firm thumbs into my shoulder blades and my back and my neck. It’s not the first time. We’ve exchanged these kinds of massages before when we were out on watch at the prison or on the run. It feels good and I fight the urge to shove him off so that I can do the same for him. I need it. He knows I need it.

I drop my chin to my chest and moan at how good it feels. “Empty your head,” Daryl whispers. And I do the best I can. His hands are around my neck and his thumbs dig into my shoulder blades and it feels like heaven.

“Everyone takes from you and no one gives back. And it's okay to feel that burden.”

“You give back,” I say, cause he does. Not just a massage when I'm breaking down but he's offered his life for mine before. Put himself in the line of danger that should have been mine to take.

“I have to get back. Carl and Judith -”

“Eugene's there. And Rosita. They're fine,” Daryl insists.

“But they need dinn -”

“Eugene and Rosita have fed your kids before.”

Rick tried to switch off. He wanted to. But the weight of his worry pressed him down and nearly folded him in half.

“Let's lay down,” Daryl suggested.

“But I have to -”

“You need to rest.”

“I need to take care -”

“Rick.”

Daryl has a way of saying my name that stops me in my tracks. It grounds and centers me. I take a deep breath. “Okay.”

There is this thing about me and Daryl. When one of us needs the comfort, the other is there. It doesn't have a name and we don't talk about it much. But I need him beside me now. We walk up to an empty bedroom and I lay down on top of the comforter with my shoes still on. 

The apocalypse makes it a habit to sleep fully clothed. But we are safe. For now. So Daryl takes off my boots and tugs off my pants and we both lay down comfortable in boxers and tee shirts. 

I lay on my back and stare at the ceiling and Daryl runs a hand through my curls. “Sleep won't fix it. But it will make things a little easier to deal with,” he whispers.

I like the feel of his comfort. Fingers in my hair and his soft voice and his attention. It's not a cure, but it helps with the symptoms, like Tylenol for a tumor.

I don't know what hurts more at times like this. The depression itself or wallowing in the guilt of it. I still have my son and daughter. I've lost people, yes. But everyone has. I have my most important person in Daryl, whatever definition it is for us. I have no right to take depression from those that it rightly belongs to. No right to require sympathy and affection from Daryl of all people. I should be consoling him.

“The guilt will kill you, Rick. Please just understand that it's ok to feel.” Daryl says this as he looks into my eyes. I see no judgement there. No accusation. Nothing but love and worry. 

He kisses me gently on the lips. It is not the first time. We share kisses like that when one of us needs it. One day, I'd like to kiss him reasonless. But today, I just need the understanding and affection and the permission to have feelings. I need the calm of his gentle lips brushing against mine.

I let the tears fall because it's ok to do it here. Daryl is watching over me and no one else will know. He knows this is my secret, my sin, my guilt. He will comfort me but he will not force my hand. When I stand tall tomorrow, with my sorrow buried deep again he will follow me with full confidence. He will keep my guilty secret. But he will watch me. He will stay close in case I need him. 

Tomorrow is a new day. And I will stand up front and I will speak. I will pretend to not be afraid and I will pretend to be confident. And I will know that Daryl will be there when I fall.

**Author's Note:**

> So like- I know we all have a right to our feelings and I shouldn't beat myself up about it. None of us should. I fought help for years because I didn't think I had the right. But the brain is a crazy place. There's wiring and chemicals and all sorts of shit that can cause depression. It's not only for those with severe trauma. So if you are hurting, it's valid. And you should seek help. As I write these words I still struggle with acceptance of it myself. Have I had bad things happen? Yeah. But not as bad as so many others. And honestly- I don't know if it's totally common or kinda rare to suffer from guilt about being depressed. But anyway. Here's a fic. Lol!


End file.
